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flappergirlwrites

May 27, 2018

Noughts and Crosses (chapter three)

(i. past) (ii. present)

iii. past

My heart is out at sea,

my head all over the place

She wished she could say she'd been brave and stoic, like any proper android would have been.

But now she knew - she knew she was more human than she'd thought, because the half an hour next to his bed were the worst moments of her life. It was cruel, to bring her to this moment in the future, to the last time Zayn ever needed her, and she wanted so badly to run out to the streets, to run as fast as she could, agitate herself enough to spike the adrenaline enough to shift her out.

Instead, she stayed.

Clutching his hand and staring at his still face, because he needed her, and it was the most fundamental principle in her life that she was always where he needed her.

So she stayed, brushing her thumb over his knuckles, until the line on the monitor opposite slowed.

The frantic beeping sounds in the background were dulled by the white noise in her ears, cancelling out the sound alerting the hospital staff. She got up quietly, leaning down to press her lips to his forehead before the time manipulator dragged her away.

She arrived in their bedroom, in front of her wardrobe, moments before she had been taken.

Relief flooded her at being returned, making her sink onto the bed behind in a state of stunned grief.

“Babe, you're taking a while, is everything – Arden?”

His voice was sharp, concerned; he leaned in front of her to peer into her face, worried.

“What's wrong?” he asked, and it seemed like she was hearing him through a layer of water and concrete. “Is something the matter?”

She looked at him blankly, younger and healthy and alive, with eyes her favourite shade of tawny brown. His eyebrows had drawn together, trying to read the expression on her face, fear flickering in his eyes at her sudden change in behaviour. From his perspective, she'd been fine just minutes ago, teasing him, smiling. He didn't know the time she'd lived in those six minutes, that she'd sat next to him, watched him die.

Finally, a hushed sob escaped her, before she began crying in earnest.

It isn't fair, she thought, through the tears of confusion mingled with relief, Zayn rubbing her back in alarm, in slow circles like his mother had all those years (months) ago. Choking sobs muffled in his neck, she clutched to him, letting him envelop her, comfort her, because it wasn't fair that she had to watch him die.

Maybe as compensation, or maybe she needed to recover, the shifting stopped for a year.

That time was a gift, they knew, in the midst of all the uncertainty, they were allowed a year to themselves. Zayn didn't know what she had seen to break down the way she did, because she couldn't bring herself to tell him. She tried, preparing herself on different occasions to blurt out the truth, stopping herself at the last moment.

He knew, she could tell. He would watch her sometimes, making a cup of tea or reading, worry etched over his face only to smooth over when she looked up. He knew she was keeping something, that she didn't want to talk about it, but he never brought it up.

For the first time, she was there for his birthday, for Christmas, for New Year. It was the first time they'd had each other for so long, despite knowing each other their whole lives. It was strange, but wonderful.

Everything was different, she realised soon enough. They had to learn completely new things, things they had never bothered with in their briefer visits. They fought and argued and made up and compromised – the whole cycle was daunting, foreign, but she found herself liking that too.

His mobile had pictures of her, of them, and even more littered the flat. Frozen points in time, she would think, looking at one of them from Zayn's birthday. She had a wide, unnatural smile and he looked like he was going to fling the bottle in his hand at the photographer (Niall), but it reminded her that she had been there that day, for that milestone. She had been there in the morning: waking him up for breakfast, pulling him into the shower with her, watching him knot his tie, cut a cake, celebrate with his friends.

The time manipulator had stayed quiet for a long while, allowing her to have some sort of life, a schedule. There was a routine even; she revelled in it, much to Zayn's grumpy amusement. He hated waking up in the morning as much as she enjoyed it, pulling the duvet over his head and pressing his forehead to her collarbone to steal a quick moment before she pushed him out of bed.

She became friends with Niall's girlfriend, a quiet pretty thing, most unlike him in every way possible. With slanted dark eyes and hair that she dyed dark blue, Lia was one of the most fascinating people to ever own an overpriced clothing store. She would go to the store and marvel at the beautiful dresses and shoes that were folded up in brightly lit shelves, piles of silks and cotton and chiffon that she found achingly lovely. Lia offered her a job there, out of fondness more than anything else, but she was unexpectedly good at it – inspecting the quality of the clothes brought in, managing the finances and bills and taxes, the calculations whirring to results in her head effortlessly.

Zayn came home one day to see her trying on dresses in front of the mirror.

“Should I ask or should I just be very satisfied with this view?” he asked, watching her smooth the form fitting navy sundress, eyebrows raised.

“Shush,” she replied, absentmindedly. “These are the samples for the production company, so they don't need them once the designs have been copied. Lia just hands them out to her friends. Help me with the zipper, Zayn?”

He sighed in that long suffering manner of his, but came over to slide the zip down her back. His fingers trailed down her spine as the skin was exposed, kissing her shoulder blades and then the nape of her neck. The dress was pushed off her, landing in a whoosh of expensive fabric at her feet. She turned around to kiss him hello, or just kiss him as much as she could (it was the one thing they both refused to take for granted). He got there first, pulling her closer with his grasp on her hips, let her deepen the kiss. She was reaching up, on her toes, feeling his fingertips slide over her back temptingly, but then he pulled away.

“I need to change, and I'm sure you're hungry. I've got pizza.”

He was always sensible, made considerably more annoying by being right. She agreed, her hands falling back to her sides. He pressed a brief, sweet kiss to her mouth before disappearing into the bathroom.

She heard the shower running as she tried on a new dress. That one didn't flatter her at all, the pale peach making her look drained and the flared skirt made her hips disappear in a flood of georgette. Pulling a face at her reflection, she shimmied out of it to try one in a shade of dark green. It looked infinitely better on her, and she grinned at how human, how normal the pretty dress felt.

Tilting her head to study it from another angle, she bit her lip as Zayn opened the door again.

“What do you think of – what is it?”

His face froze, raking over her appearance in a way that wasn't just appreciative. “I've seen that dress before.”

“What? That's unlikely, it's – ”

“I've seen it on you, Arden,” he cut in, puzzled. “You were wearing it when you came to the pub for drinks, after I graduated. It was that dress.”

“Are...are you sure?”

“I distinctly remember pulling it off of you. The buttons up the side are a right bastard,” he said flatly, making her face heat up in response.

“You could just say yes.”

“For a time traveller from the future, you're a bit of a prude, do you know?”

She opened her mouth, not quite ready with a retort, when it began again.

It had been long enough that she had almost forgotten what it meant, the tingling of her internal system, the sparks in her bloodstream. Her head snapped up, meeting his gaze.

He had never actually seen her shifting; he threw his arms out towards her just as she slipped out of reach, sucked back into the waiting vortex, the tips of his fingers only just touching her wrist. Stunned, she saw his mouth move to form her name just as the manipulator threw her into a different point of the timeline.

Steadying herself, she looked around to find herself in front of their favourite pub, the one they'd met at. The faint sounds of music inside meant there was a proper celebration that night.

There was no need for a genius level IQ for her to know what night it was. Inside the pub was Zayn, on the night of his graduation, wishing his girlfriend would show up.

And that was what she did, she thought, straightening the hem of the dress and giving her hair a ruffle to settle it.

She showed up.

The manipulator was unpredictable, and it always took a few tries for her to get back to the person anchoring her home.

Zayn's graduation party was worth the first shift. Walking in to see his face, spill his beer. She watched him get drunk, beaming all over his face and laughing with his friends. At the end of the night, she led him home, helped him take off his clothes.

“I'm so proud of you, you know?” she told him, in between sloppy kisses.

He pressed another to her jaw, missing her mouth. “You came,” he breathed, pupils dilated and fingers fumbling with the dress' fastenings, “You turned up at the pub and I missed you and,” he paused to kiss her again, biting the senstive skin on her neck, eliciting a soft whine from her before nuzzling into her cheek, “Fuck, I love you.”

He told her again and again, breathing it into her skin with little kisses and pants, as though repeating the words would make them a part of her, but they already were. She wanted to tell him that, but he wouldn't let her, and she tossed her head back, gasping, overwhelmed under his gaze and his mouth and his fingers. Tired and still tipsy, he fell into the sheets next to her, eyes drooping close, hand over her waist.

Those words were part of the problem, she thought later, getting out of bed noiselessly.

Zayn had told her she had been here one evening, so she knew there was going to be another shift soon. Pulling on a pair of tights, black clothing that would mimic her old uniform, she spent the next hour sitting next to the bed.

He slept, oblivious to her presence. Leaning back against the wall, it hurt her, at least a little, that he didn't stir at the loss of contact, that he wouldn't know that she was gone, that he didn't need her for a while now. It was selfish, she knew, but she woke every time he got up to go to the loo or get a drink of water. She was there entirely due to him, her training and the war making her senses extra-sensitive, and she was the girl who felt things.

He was only human, and she didn't have that excuse.

The next two shifts threw her into different periods of time, 3008 and 765 BC. As interesting as the new places were, she found herself waiting for the next shift. She wanted to go home, to her home, she was just so tired.

Her next shift to London threw her into Zayn's seventeen year old life.

Having abandoned her previous routine, she began looking for him instead of beelining to the closest cafe or pub. It was an ardous search, her feet ached as she walked walked walked, looking for any signs of her boyfriend in 2009. She had almost given up, ready to find the nearest establishment with hot food available, when she heard it:

Raucous laughter and Zayn's distinct voice.

The sound led her around the corner, to the sight of four lads leering at a remarkably young Zayn.

He looked like he hadn't been sleeping too well, face scrunched up into fury as he walked as fast as he could, ignoring the other boys' heckling.

“Come on, pretty boy, what're you being so rude about, eh?”

“You know you'll get an A in your project, there's no need to be so secretive. You could share the wealth, mate!”

“Fuck off,” Zayn snapped, increasing his pace as one of them lunged at his notebook.

“Aww, Malik, you shouldn't be so secretive, let us see a few pages, it'll be enough for a C.”

“You're supposed to have your own topic and stealing my research will – keep your fuckin' hands off me!”

The biggest one had grabbed his backpack, holding him in place. Despite being as tall as his classmates, Zayn was still wiry and obviously outnumbered, scowling and spitting curses as they laughed.

“They said you're alright, you know. Why're you being such a fud about letting us see?”

“Let go of me!” he spat, even as one of them pulled the notebook out of his hands.

Sheets of paper floated down from its pages, littering the street with notes and pictures, highlighted passages on print outs. A boy picked up one of the pictures before letting out a delighted guffaw.

“It's not homework, Kev! It's a girl!”

“What's that? You got yourself a little girlfriend, Malik?”

“Give that back,” he replied, struggling in desperation, looking more and more helpless.

Two of the lads snatched up a few more pages from the pavement. “It's the same girl. Mate, tell me you aren't wetting your pants over some dead princess!”

Another one whistled appreciatively. “Can't blame him. Look at her, she's fucking fit.”

“Oh, yeah, she's alright. I think I'll keep a few of these...don't mind sharing, do you?”

“You shut your mouth!”

All of them laughed, even as Zayn managed to pull away, eyes blazing with fury. He moved as if to hit the closest boy, throwing his fist back.

“I think that's quite enough,” she declared, unable to resist stepping in.

The teenagers froze, surprised. The largest boy recovered quickly, casting an unimpressed eye over her, barely phased by the threat in her voice.

“Yeah? Well, mind your own business, lady.”

“You give him his things back now,” she bit out, hands curling into fists at her sides.

“What're you going to do if we don't? Swing your handbag at us?”

“She doesn't even have one, Kev,” sniggered his friend, unintelligently.

Anger like she very rarely experienced flared in her veins. Closing her eyes, she opened them again to look at the teenaged bullies with red pupils. It was only her infra red scanner, of course, but they didn't have to know that.

Behind them, recognisation dawned in Zayn's eyes. Momentarily confused, his gaze left hers, drifting down instead to his shoes, as though embarrassed.

“Leave,” she snarled, snapping the word out.

They scarpered, tripping over their own shoes in their hurry to get away from the red eyed demon glaring at them, barely turning the corner when Zayn spoke up.

“You didn't have to do that.”

He sounded more aggravated than thankful, throwing her off. While not really expecting tears of thankfulness, she assumed he would be a bit happier to see her.

“What?”

“You're not my personal bodyguard,” he mumbled, looking away from her. Silence fell as he began gathering the paper that had escaped his notebook. She watched him, incredulous; he had never been so unwarrantedly rude to her.

“Oh,” she said, finally, unsure what she had done wrong. “I'm sorry, I was only trying to help -”

“You did great, cheers.”

“Why are you being so mean?”

She didn't mean to sound whiny, but her question had a tone of hurt that they both picked up on, making her flinch.

“You think you're clever, don't you?” he said. The words spilled out of his mouth in a rush, as though he hadn't meant to say a word, but his brain hadn't quite grasped that.

“I...no, I don't. What's the matter with you?”

“Who the fuck are you?” he asked, heatedly, standing up, arms full of his work. “And why...fucking hell, why do you have to always be near me?”

“I don't mean to do anything to upset you, Zayn, I'm sorry.”

He shook his head, lips pressed together in an effort not to reply. She watched him put away the paper, confused and uneasy. He had never been unhappy to see her, and now, the fact that he seemed to resent her presence was...was...

- was like a sharp kick to her abdomen, sending her reeling and out of breath, unable to understand what happened. She'd felt a fair number of kicks and bullets and sharp projectiles, but the fact that Zayn at any age didn't want to be around her was infinitely more hurtful.

She didn't know she could feel this way, she realised, hands over her stomach, the imaginary blow on her body. This feeling of crushing confusion – it was new, and so painfully terrible.

“I don't know what I did,” she said, finally. “I don't even know what it was, but I'm sorry. Please don't be angry.”

Zayn had his back to her, head bent over his bag as he struggled to zip it shut. At her words, his shoulders tensed.

“That's a part of the problem.” He began walking away, one hand in his pocket while the other slung the backpack over his shoulder. Stopping at the corner, he turned around again. “I don't know what you are and what you're doing here, but you know my name. I've...I'm seventeen, you know? I'm seventeen and all I've ever dreamed about is finding you.”

“Zayn...”

“Please let me finish,” he said, voice sharp. “This isn't fair to me. You popping into my life when you fancy it. I'm going crazy. Completely fucking mental, and I have to stop, okay?” He gestured to the overstuffed bag he was carrying. “I'm throwing this shit away, because I'm seventeen and I have a life that can't revolve around a phantasm. But then you show up and...”

Then, his eyes cold and unforgiving, he said, “Please stay away.”

With that, he left.

She wasn't sure what happened after that.

It felt like her mind had shut it's systems down, and an autopilot program kicked in. It took her to a different timestream, it found her a way to sneak into an empty house in 2304, it let her knock herself out.

When she woke, she was in a stranger's home, lying on the uncomfortable sofa/dining table hybrid that got so popular in the attempt to conserve space in the over-populated box homes. Waking up wasn't pleasant, her eyelids and chest felt far too heavy. Her system had sent an alarm, forcing her to open her eyes.

Then she heard the crackling and scratching. Raising her hand to her eyes, she saw what had caused her healing to wake her up, what caused it to suddenly whir into action.

Her wrist was purple, and as she stared at it, wondering what had made the small inconvenient injury swell into something so ghastly, she saw sparks of electricity racing to the awkwardly set bone.

Something was wrong. Not just in the depths of her mournful mind, but something was actually physically wrong with her.

She didn't remember the last time she had to worry about any sort of illness or malfunction, much less a broken bone or even a cold.

Her systems were slowing down.

The shift to the next point of time was difficult.

She arrived clumsily, the balance she had perfected over time lost as she staggered into a new place and lost her footing. Biting her lip as her kneecaps hit the cement pavement, pain blooming from her knees and the palm of her hands, she got up shakily.

First checking her wrist, which her healing software had had to break again to set correctly, she frowned when a quick scan revealed that the bone was still repairing itself. It had been years since it had taken her so long to mend an injury, the resetting taking almost as long as it did for normal humans. Still, there was little she could do except tighten her bandages.

A cursory glance around her surroundings told her she was in London again, but shunted a few months into the future, around the time she had left her Zayn. It was mid morning on a weekday, and she realised he would be at work at the university. Fortunately, she was only a few blocks away, and she increased her pace, eager to see the version of him that still wanted her.

It took fifteen minutes to find the building he usually lectured in; she abandoned the small shred of self restraint and began running up the stairs that would lead her to him.

Barely had she reached the top of the stone steps when she spotted Zayn, sitting near the entrance of the building, a few feet away. He was wearing a thick coat and the glasses she had forced him to buy rested on the bridge of his nose as he read something in a thick tome of a book. His eyes were tired and barely noticeable lines were starting to appear around them, but he still looked remarkably handsome and it made her insides somersault.

The grass was covered with a layer of frost, crunching under her boots as she walked, opening her mouth to call out to him when she saw them.

Three girls had reached him first, young women in neat trousers and fitted jumpers. They were probably his students, teenagers desperately trying to seem mature although one of them had electric green dyed into the end of her fashionably messy braid.

Zayn smiled up at them, his eyes crinkling at the ends in that way that made her want to kiss him, suddenly breaking into his quiet laughter as a girl said something that caused the others to giggle. He shook his head, tapping at a book and replying, causing them to throw back their heads and laugh as well.

He looked happy.

A sensation of unfamiliar heat spread through her, melting her excitement in a quick heartbeat.

Except it wasn't just one heartbeat.

She gasped silently, bending over into herself, grasping her chest as her pulse rose uncontrollably.

“Hey, are you alright? Lady?”

The voice was near her but sounded like it came through a few feet of thick cement and she realised her air supply was fluctuating. Turning away, she stumbled down the stone steps blindly. Sirens went off in her head, her sympathetic nervous system kicking in and adrenaline coursing through her bloodstream in a flood.

Her mouth parted, trying to gulp in air and her eyes squeezed shut.

When she opened them, she was on a beach, collapsed on all fours, trying to swallow large mouthfuls of salty breeze.

Why am I so tired?

Laying under a tree with thick, viscous leaves, she thought of home, the place with the purple sunlight and her best friend.

Caution: Hydration required. Water preserves estimated at 48 per cent.

She was an idiot, she realised. She was an idiot for trying to be someone different, for resisting the pattern her peers fell into. She was an idiot for talking Harry into letting her do the stupid things she wanted to do, for letting him risk his job and life to keep her safe. She was an idiot for getting involved with Zayn.

There was never anything different about her, never had been.

She was still the same girl who watched the sun go down and dusted old records, dreaming about escaping her future. The same person who was below average, never exceptional in any field. She wasn't very pretty, or very smart or resourceful or talented. If she had been born in Zayn's time, he wouldn't have looked twice at her, the unremarkable person who would only rest in the corner of his vision and never attract it.

Caution: Hydration required. Water preserves estimated at 36 per cent.

It was because of Harry's concern for her that she'd been tricked into believing better. It was because she was thrown through time that she had gotten herself thoroughly woven into Zayn's life, forcing him to follow her. If she hadn't interfered so much, they would have stayed in their own separate, distinct lives, and he would have been able to do better.

He would have been able to study what he liked out of interest, not curiousity. He would have found a prettier human, one who could stay with him as she liked, instead of predetermined spasms of time. He would have been able to marry her, have children, lived his normal wonderful life.

In many ways, she had ruined his life out of her ridiculous need to be special, to be different.

Alert: Immediate hydration advised. Fatigue detected. System weakening detected.

She could never forgive herself for that.

Alert: Initiating shut down to conserve energy. Stand by activated. SOS mode activated.

She was just so tired.

“Arden? Arden, wake up!”

Since the reprogramming, she hadn't had a single dream but still, in that moment, she could have sworn there was a voice that sounded like Zayn's.

“Fucking hell - you're burning up.”

Water, cold and welcome, was pushed past her dry lips. It trickled down her throat and she gasped a little, widening her mouth so she could swallow more of the liquid. Coughing, her eyes flew open.

It took a while for her to adjust to the light above her, blinking rapidly until everything came into focus.

He was looking down at her, kneeling at her side and everything about him told her that he was worried, stressed, exhausted. That was how it always seemed to be lately, with her, with Zayn, whichever time they met.

“Water,” she managed to say, throat still cracked and dry.

“You'll be sick if -”

“Not fully human,” she reminded him feebly, tugging at his shirt. He hesitated for a brief second before letting her slowly finish the bottle.

“Do you want more?”

She nodded, and it was after she'd managed to drink another half litre to restore her water levels that she asked the next most important question.

“How old are you?”

“Nineteen,” he mumbled, leaning over her to help prop her head on a pillow. Her systems had whirred into repair mode, fast for an ordinary human being, but still much slower than she was accustomed to. Once she was sunk into soft cotton, she noted that she had a shirt tugged on over her tank top, old cotton that was soft and warm and welcome.

Wryly, and maybe inappropriately considering their circumstances, she amused herself with the image of the teenager awkwardly dressing her without trying to be disrespectful. It then occurred to her that the shirt was far too well fitting to belong to him, and that at the age of nineteen he was almost certain to have women in his life who weren't her. The idea that she was perhaps wearing his girlfriend's clothing (a girl who wasn't her, someone normal, someone without the constant internal struggle between identities) made her amusement peter out instantly.

Jealousy, she was beginning to understand, was an emotion far too unpleasant and upsetting for her to adapt to.

Letting out her breath slowly, she glanced at Zayn. It had been two years since they had last met, for him at any rate, and it had hardly been very amiable, so she wasn't too surprised at the glimmer of guilt in his face.

“I'm not dead,” she said, at last, voice still hoarse.

“You could have been.”

“No.” The confidence in the word obviously took him aback, because he frowned.

“You looked fucking terrible, you know? You showed up in my fucking dorm, unconscious, looking like death and I thought – I thought...” His voice shook, hands gripping the duvet tight enough that she saw his knuckles pale. “The last thing I said to you....”

“I know I'm not going to die yet, Zayn.” She sounded a lot sharper than she intended to, but ploughed on anyway. “I've been told there are a few more things I'll do, and I haven't done them yet.”

“How are you so sure?” he demanded, “How do you know the next time you show up half dead won't be the last?”

At that, she grasped his fingers, easing them off the duvet. Startled, his gaze fell to their hands as she linked them together, thumb lightly running along his knuckles in a feather light touch.

“Don't worry,” she said firmly, with a small smile pulling at her mouth. “Even if the next time is the last for me, it won't be for you.”

“What does that...”

“We have time, okay? Short moments, days and hours and weeks and sometimes, if we're lucky, months. So you can...you can stop worrying about me. Your life is yours, and mine is my own, but we've been mixed up a bit. I'm sorry for that, but don't worry. You don't have to wait all the time, because I can't stay for you. Remember that, alright?”

“I don't understand what you're telling me,” he said desperately, picking apart the funny look in her face to comprehend what she was saying.

“I need to go to the loo,” she muttered, out of context. It only served to confuse the dark haired teenager further, but she had felt the little sparking in her system that always meant the same thing.

She wasn't going to shift in front of him yet, she decided, as Zayn supported her. She stumbled into the bathroom, not bothering to lock the door because she wouldn't be here in a moment. Falling against the tile, she waited for the shifting that he was too young to witness and they still had so much to talk about but he was still just a boy, really.

Until next time, then.

The strange beach was back.

She sat on the sand, arms wrapped around her knees as the waves shyly approached before retreating in a sweep. What felt like hours passed, the water levels rising, coming closer to her toes. The sea grew bolder as the sun went down, splashing up against her legs, salty spray licking her face.

Each wave left something back, almost like an offering of peace. It was amusing discovering what she could find, walking along the seaside, feet sinking into the wet sand. Her tread may have been light, or the waves crashing were stronger, but her footprints were washed out almost immediately.

There would be no sign that I had ever been here, she thought wryly.

It was probably for the best.

Occasionally, she reached out to pluck something out of the sand: a conch shell with some sort of sea slug hiding inside, a broken spork, tree bark dotted with ocean algae, even more shells or chipped mother of pearl.

It was when the moon was almost halfway across the uncannily clear sky that she found it.

It took a little more digging than the other things, and she sprawled out on her knees, using her hands to scrape away sand in little heaps until the strange object was fully unearthed.

There were a few confused seconds before it clicked, why the little round thing with antennae seemed so familiar.

There were records and large tomes, ancient edu-reels on her broadcast tubes, data jotted down next to pictures rolling across another screen and she doesn't know how she's going to finish reading all of this information.

Still, it was a bit amazing: everything that had ever happened in recorded history at her fingertips, for her perusal. It may have been the longest week of her life, but she would be lying if she said she wasn't having the time of her life.

“Stop looking so happy, I want to choke you.” Harry's voice preceded his disheveled head into the room, looking in with a remarkably grouchy look on his face.

“Graduation means hard work,” she said primly, laughing when he threw a bottle of water at her.

Collapsing next to her, all gangly limbs and too-long curls, he rubbed his eyes tiredly. “Lucky you just have to read all this nonsense. Our teacher wants us to build a navigation system from the spare parts of an antique.”

“Antique?”

“Something called a GPS. Satellite oriented, from the 22nd century. Completely primitive technology that makes no sense.” He picked up one of her digital notepads with an expression of great distaste on his face. “What's this shit?”

“Rude. You may not enjoy your assignment, but I'm rather enjoying my report, so don't be petty.”

“What's it on again?” he asked, a teasing glint in his sleep deprived eyes. “Dead people and their inconsequential dead decisions and the dead people they deaded?”

She blinked at him in overplayed horror. “Did you actually pass our language communication course?”

“With thirty points more than you,” he returned, making her roll her eyes. He never missed an opportunity to remind her of the intellectual gap between them.

“Yeah, yeah, like I could ever forget.” Taking her notepad away from him, she pushed away all her research. “It's on explorers and their legacy, by the way. My report, you know?”

“I know.” He grinned, ruffling his hair and making it poof out even more. “Columbus and Sen and all those dead farts.”

“So, so rude,” she sighed. “It's very interesting though. There was a woman from what they called Myanmar in the 25th century, Mahnin. She set up this expedition that – ”

“No. You're not giving me a boring lecture.”

She fell silent, pouting.

He looked at her downcast face, exaggerated for his benefit. Defeated, he grumped reluctantly, “Okay, one fact. And make it interesting enough to last you till next week.”

“Oh, so in this subsection of the European continent on earth, they had a country called Italy. In the 13th century, a man called Marco Polo left to voyage across to a whole another continent. Because he was so famous, the children made up a game with his name. One of them would be blindfolded, and would have to find the others. The kid would call out 'Marco', and the others yelled back 'Polo' so he could find them by estimating how far they were.”

“That's a stupid fact. I hope you're happy you wasted it.”

She whacked him hard on his arm. “It's brilliant. Auditory hide and seek was played among children centuries after the explorer died. The game wasn't documented, it was literally an inheritance of word of mouth.”

He snorted, unimpressed. “I'm sure. It's...” His words stopped in his mouth. “Did you say auditory?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“I think I have an idea for my project.” He jumped up to his feet, giving her a hurried pat on the head before starting to rush out.

“What? Harry, wait, what do you mean?”

“I'm going to Marco Polo! The machine that is, it's going to call out Marco, and it'll be like sonar waves, the vibrations charting the area around the machine...and I think I can – I really gotta get to the uni and look for spare parts, I'll talk to you later!”

“We have to report for medical together! Where will you be at eight?”

“I'll yell Marco,” he shot back, with an impish grin. “You know what to say, right?”

“Polo,” she breathed, looking at the scrap of metal in disbelief, her vision blurrying out of focus as sudden, unexpected tears sprung to her eyes. Leaning closer to the machine, she repeated herself. “Polo!”

Jumping up to her feet, she brought her hands to cup her mouth, shrieking as loud as could, throwing the word into the air. “Polo! POLO! POLO!”

The words were carried by the wind, snatched from her throat to disappear into the sound of the waves breaking on the shore. The silence that answered her could have been mocking, but she bit back her little pang of disappointment. Inhaling to expand her lungs, she screamed the word till her voice gave out and exhaustion forced her to lay back, stare at the sky.

The light was starting to lick into the dark of night, overwhelming the stars, the sun was rising, and Harry was trying to bring her home.

There were flashes after that, visits that spanned over a few hours, and she lost count of the number of countries she was flung into (Korea-Cambodia-Hungary-Nigeria-Greece) and then dragged back out, everything blurring together in a confusing, dizzying spiral.

It could have been weeks, long sticky months, or maybe a day or two before she was returned to Zayn's timeline, dropping ungracefully into a pub bathroom. She gasped, catching her breath and staring at her tired reflection in the grimy mirror. Washing her face, she used some water to dampen her hair a little and push it back, the icy water shocking her awake, like she hadn't been in so long.

There was a loud thumping on the door of the tiny loo, and it jerked her into stepping away. Apologising profusely to the angry man waiting outside, she made her way outside, hands in her pockets. The air outside was crisp, with the sting of winter approaching and waiting to unleash completely on the city.

She only had to walk a few blocks before she recognised the surroundings, the film theatre Zayn frequented in the future, dragging her with him to watch long documentaries on anarchy and conspiracies and other things that she found amusing. It looked newer than she was used to, the paint on the walls less like it was on the verge of peeling off. Heat bloomed in her stomach, crawling up and over her freezing skin to tug her mouth upward into a smile.

She could have stood there for a while, staring transfixed at the door into the small theatre, people pushing past her impatiently, her feet rooted to the pavement. The smile lingered, because Zayn, because oh, she missed him, his moodiness and his quiet affection and the warmth in the briefest of his touches, and his smile -

And then he was there, leaving the theatre with a small frown on his face, tucking his phone into the pocket of his coat before his eyes flickered up, meeting hers.

“Zayn,” she croaked, because it really was so cold but there was that incredible warmwarmwarm in his eyes when he saw her.

It took three steps for him to walk right upto her and wrap his arms close around her, fierce, and it was all she needed before her legs gave out, her vision going blank.

She woke up in soft sheets, a duvet tucked around her. Sitting up, she rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hands before peering around her to recognise Zayn's old home. This too, looked much newer, the posters tacked onto the wall shinier, shelves emptier than they had been the first time she had seen it, when he had been twenty six and books littered every inch of the tiny flat.

He must have moved out of his dorms fairly recently, she concluded, licking her dry lips before noticing the lump of clothes over the edge of the bed.

It took her a few seconds to recognise Zayn, sitting on the carpet and arms perched on the side of his bed, pillowing his head. It must have terrified him to have her fall unconscious in his arms, enough to have him keep vigil next to her like an overprotective puppy. The idea made her ache with fondness, but she tamped it down, focusing on carefully climbing out of the large pile of blankets he had surrounded her with, avoiding moving or awakening the tired boy.

Padding over the carpet to where she knew the bathroom to be, she stripped, her surroundings unusually bare but still familiar enough that stepping into the bath and fumbling with the shower was reflexive. Scrubbing at her hair and skin with the clinical, scent-less shower gel Zayn always preferred, she washed until the small mirror on the cabinet was thoroughly steamed up. Once she was done, she carefully dried herself off with the towel folded neatly on the rack, wrapping it around herself before stepping out.

The room was empty when she exited, the Zayn sized lump on the floor gone, replaced by clothes sitting expectantly on one corner. There were sounds of someone fumbling in the kitchen, and she smiled again, pulling a worn, soft t shirt over her head and shimmying into too-long pyjama pants that only stayed up above the flare of her hips. Running her hand through the tangled strands of her still dripping hair, she went into the kitchen to see Zayn at the counter, facing away from her as the kettle in front of him boiled slowly.

His shoulders were tense, the hair at the back of his head sticking up untidily and he was skinnier than the older version she was used to, but the comfort of the image was burned into her insides, making her exhale in relief.

The sound made him turn around, and his eyes dragged over the over sized clothes before meeting hers.

“Hey,” he said, tentatively, and she couldn't help crossing over, stumbling into his chest and pressing her nose into his sternum. He froze, but then his arms went around her after a few seconds. She never wanted to leave, love and longing and all the affection she was capable of in the tips of her fingers, resting on his chest.

He sighed, she could feel the vibration as she clutched closer. “It probably doesn't bode well for us that the last two times we met you were unconscious to start with.”

“It's unintentional,” she mumbled into his shirt, finally looking up to see his half lidded eyes, peering down at her, cautious and slightly thrilled. “I'm sorry if you were worried.”

“I'm better now,” he assured her, quiet, dragging his hand up and down her back.

Before she could think it through, she reached up, tilting her head so that her mouth pressed to his effortlessly.

He gasped against her lips. Surprised, she made to move away, but then he followed her mouth, closing the distance himself this time, kissing her more firmly. Melting, she responded, flicking her tongue against the seam of his mouth like how she knew he liked, the action comfortable, instinctive, but it made a groan rise in his throat, taken aback.

Shifting, she blinked up at him, uncertain at his hesitance, the shyness of his hand at the small of her back. Zayn blinked back, looking dazed, like he wasn't quite sure what had happened.

“Are you okay?” she asked, now worried at his astonishment, reaching up to cup his cheek, smoothing two fingers over his cheekbone.

His eyes closed at the touch, long lashes brushing the tip of her finger, mouth parting slightly. “I...you kissed me.”

“Yes?”

His eyes opened again, and he looked inexplicably frightened. “You've never done that before.” At the horror struck expression on her face, he hastened to add, “Not that I mind, I've been wanting to do that since as long as I remember, but I didn't know...that you...”

“Oh. Oh. Zayn, I'm sorry, I forgot, I'm so...” Embarrassment flooded her, along with the distant memory from long ago, about the older Zayn telling her about their first kiss.

Pausing, she bit her lip, realising what that meant. If Zayn was around twenty now, it meant this was her last time with him for the next six years – which meant he deserved a more thorough explanation from her.

Soon.

“I really didn't mind,” he prompted her, voice small. “Don't...I want to, again. More.”

But for now, she smiled, leaning into him and nodding briefly. “Of course,” she said, kissing his nose, then the corner of his mouth as it lifted into a small smile too.

Kissing this Zayn was nothing like she was used to, the hesitance in every move, the bashful way he watched her when she pushed him onto a terribly shabby armchair and clambered onto his lap. There was a different kind of eagerness in how he kissed her back, trying to learn what made her arch into him, let out a soft moan. His mouth moved against hers sloppier than she was used to, and the naive enthusiasm in that made her warm all over. It was unbearably new, the sensitivity from being so much younger.

He audibly whimpered when she ran the tip of her tongue over the roof of his mouth – a trick she learned from Zayn in the future. The badly surpressed sound had her moving back, looking down at him to see his eyes glazed and pupils dilated, mouth slick with spit and a surge of need ran through her in a shudder.

“M'not done,” he mumbled thickly, using his grip on her bottom to propel her closer, bringing their mouths together again.

She knew distantly, in the back of her mind where logic had taken up permanent residence ever since she had met Zayn, that she ought to have that conversation about where she came from, that she needed to explain to him what the future held for him and how it was nothing less than frustrating, how much patience he would require. It was easy to forget in the arms of the young man whose priorities were a lot less rational than they would become with age, who was clearly not complaining about foregoing a good, thorough explanation at the chance to slowly divest her of her clothes.

Laying back on his tiny bed, watching the sheer fascination in his eyes when they roved over her form, she was aware that there was probably very little time. For her. For them.

His hair dipped into his eyes when he leaned over her, no aged lines around them, gaze sharper than they would be, his lashes ticklish against her ribs when he dragged his lips down skin he had never seen before. It occurred to her that this may be his first time with her, that he was studying her to remember her for all the times that this would be instinctive, natural – but for her, this was in all likelihood the only time she could be with him again.

The thought felt like a block in her air pipe, the lump in her throat she couldn't wish away. It prompted her to move too, to use her eyes at their highest resolution, committing the moment to memory. It was her last first with Zayn, there was nothing more to go forward for.

She could be selfish for this, she thought, with that ominous prickling in the corner of her eye. She could be selfish and take what she wanted for one last time.

The shift came like she knew it would, the next morning. Once she had woken up to see Zayn's broad back facing hers, once she had kissed him awake and they had lain in the warmth of the duvet in a comfortable afterglow, once she had scrunched up the courage to explain everything, to apologise, to tell him how much she loves him, because he had to remember, he had to, he had to.

“It's upto you now,” she said, finally, not shaking his hand off her knee although his grip was almost tight enough to hurt. “I've had my time, I've fallen in love and I've lived with you in a way I would have never imagined back in my time. Now it's your turn. You can choose to remember, or you can forget, but either way...”

His eyes flicked up to hers, and she swallowed around that uncomfortable lump again. “Either way,” she ploughed on, determined. “Thank you. I...I just want you to know that.”

In that moment, as he shifted, kneeling in front of her and grasped both her hands in his slightly sweaty fingers, he appeared too young and too old simultaneously. The person she knew and the person she would slowly learn. “You're crazy if you think I wouldn't do this again and again and again for you,” he told her.

A laugh of relief escaped her, and she threw her head back, grinning at the ceiling. “We sound so silly, you know.”

“Yeah,” he admitted, sheepish. “I do. I feel a bit embarrassed to look directly at you after saying that, so I'm going to go to the kitchen and attempt to not drown in a teacup.”

She laughed again, biting her lip and nodding when he got to his feet. “You do that.”

He skittered around for a few seconds, halfway to the door before shuffling back awkwardly to kiss her sweetly on the corner of her mouth and then determinedly walking back out quickly.

She was still sitting in mild shock on the bed, two fingers against where his lips had brushed hers, when the familiar tug through time began.

He had given her a home, a place to return to, anchored her to him with an attachment that felt so overwhelming that it had brought a feeling of calm.

A weird kind of peace stretched over her, when she looked up at the bookstore where she knew Zayn awaited her for the last time. There was a small voice in the back of her mind reminding her to focus on the details, on the weather, the chatter in the crowded store, the bright colours at the back where there was some sort of daycare. It was all too much, though, she thought, spotting an achingly young toddler who would grow up to become -

Well, she blinked, glancing at the other young children, giggling over their crayon books and large building blocks. If she had to take something away from what her botched time manipulator had put her through, it was probably that nothing and no one was really ever insignificant.

“Hey, kid. You want to hear a story?”

“I'm just waiting for my mum.”

Every action, every thought put into the world had lead somewhere. Every second of time was fraught with purpose, meaningless or not – each decision had led the world into what it was, to this wonderful, crazy, overwhelming, incredible, dangerous planet with all these people.

“We won't go anywhere. I'll read you this book or something. Is that okay?”

“...sure, I guess.”

There was just one person that really mattered to her, though, she thought wryly. The one who had changed her life, who had changed her.

“In a world a lot like ours, and yet really different, there was a girl who wanted to do a whole lot and thought very little about how to go about it - ”

So, it was okay, really, that she didn't know where she was going.

It was okay.

She muttered it to herself under her breath. It was okay. Even when the pull made her disappear into nothingness, every atom of her being screaming with pain, yanking her in a million directions at once. It was okay, the pain was so much that it was almost numbing, and she was probably being shredded apart and scattered across the universe.

Except there was red light at the back of her eyelids, spilling over her face, wrapping her up and when she opened her eyes, she realised it was sunlight.

Sunlight.

Warm, familiar and the distinct shade of diffused purple.

You always have your way

but now it's too soon for you to stay.

#Noughts and Crosses #zayn #one direction fanfiction #one direction #one direction scenarios #flappergirlwrites